Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, As for Rosina,- for the quiet sleeper, Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, Nothing we know,-but that her heart is cold, Poor beating heart! And so the Story's told. As PROLOGUE SSUME that we are friends. Assume A common taste for old costume,— Old pictures,-books. ting Then dream us sit Us two-in some soft-lighted room. Outside, the wind;—the "ways are mire." Silent at first, in time we glow; "Reveils" and "Couchers," "Fêtes"; "Balls" and Anon we glide to "crocks" and plates, Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over “states' |